


The Cadre {1920s AU/Prologue}

by tacmc



Series: The Cadre [1]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacmc/pseuds/tacmc
Summary: Summary: Orynth became Aelin Galathynius’s kingdom the moment the Prohibition began. She sang every night, the voice of the city’s underground world, her cousin selling the liquor that was banned by the authorities. She was living the dream, young and free, until the Cadre, until Rowan Whitethorn, came into her life.Since Rowan Whitethorn returned from war, everything had changed. His aunt wants to take his crown, old enemies have returned as business partners, and he can’t sleep without feeling as if he’ll be suffocated by the memories of war. Little did he know that when he came back home he would be leaving one battlefield and entering another.All characters belong to SJM.Warning: mature content - language, alcohol use, drug use, sex, murders and shit.
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver/Lysandra, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Rowan Whitethorn, Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Series: The Cadre [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752127
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	The Cadre {1920s AU/Prologue}

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Rowan Whitethorn stood in an alleyway, smoking a cigarette. It was late morning, one of those dreary, rotten mornings that came far too often lately in Orynth. There was a soft drizzle falling from the sky, leaving his tweed newsboy cap soaked. He had to make sure his surroundings were clear, though, before he tapped on the rickety wooden door behind him.

The door swung open and he was met with Lorcan, a revolver hanging lazily from his fingertips. He stepped aside without saying a word. As Rowan pushed past him, Lorcan looked out of the door, both ways, before shutting it quietly and turning the lock.

The large room was empty, except for his fellow Cadre members. Lorcan was now sitting at a table in the corner, his feet propped up on top of the wooden slab as he blew smoke into the air. Fenrys and Connall were talking mutedly about something, only looking up to say hello to Rowan as he swept by. Gavriel and Vaughan were the only ones doing anything remotely productive. Sitting at a table, under a flickering lamp, they flipped through the book of finances, assuring that everything was accounted for. 

When Rowan sat down across from them, shrugged off his jacket, and tossed his hat on the table, Gavriel said, “Maeve wants to see you.”

“Fuck,” Rowan breathed. He hated those words more than anything. Maeve, his aunt, liked to believe she was in charge of the entire organization. Perhaps because while the men were away at war, she was. Nonetheless, the war was over, and her boys had returned. Now, she needed to take her rightful place at the bottom, keeping the shit organized and nothing more.

As Rowan entered her office, where it sat in the corner of the room, she grinned. Her dark hair had recently been cropped short to keep up with modern fashion, and it framed her sharp face nicely. Maeve had been the youngest of his mother’s sisters, only ten years older than himself. Young, although she carried herself as if she had the wisdom of a hundred years in her past.

“Sit,” she ordered.

Rowan leaned against the doorframe. “I’m fine standing.”

Maeve’s lips tightened. “Fine. I came across something that might interest you.”

Rowan finished his cigarette and tossed the butt onto the floor of her office. As her eyes narrowed at the sign of disrespect, Rowan said, “Go on.”

“There’s a speakeasy across town,” Maeve went on, lifting her chin to meet the hateful gaze of her nephew. “Lost their suppliers. I hear they’ve been asking around, trying to find someone new.”

“We don’t mess with alcohol,” Rowan said, and turned his back to leave.

“People are growing desperate,” Maeve crooned, and Rowan stopped. “I made a connection in Eyllwe, someone I befriended while you boys were gone. In the liquor business, a business in which I am now part-owner of. This could work, Rowan, and it would bring in a lot of money.”

He knew Maeve had been getting herself out there while they were gone, knew she had been bringing in more and more revenue by the day. And yet, he didn’t trust a word that came out of her mouth, no matter how much business, both illegal and not, she was now a part of. 

Rowan turned, slowly. He eyed his aunt. “There’s something you’re not mentioning.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked, innocently. It was the little smile on her lips that pushed him over the edge.

“Because I know you.” Rowan sighed. “You wouldn’t go through so much trouble when we’re doing just fine as it is unless the payout exceeded your expectations, nor would you try so hard to convince me the moment I walked through the door, without the others present. So. What are you not telling me?”

Maeve kept her mouth shut. Instead, she pushed a manila envelope across her desk. Begrudgingly, Rowan slumped down into the chair across from Maeve and snatched the envelope off the desk.

As he opened it, his jaw locked.

A stack of papers full of information greeted him, along with a series of black and white photographs. Maeve had certainly done her research, Rowan had to at least acknowledge that. He looked into the eyes of a young woman, probably not much younger than himself. Her light hair was curled and sat just beneath her chin. She was singing in a short, beaded dress. Rowan flipped to the next photograph and stilled.

“This is Aedion Ashryver.”

Maeve said nothing.

“This club is owned by Rhoe Galathynius.”

“Yes,” Maeve answered.

Rowan shook his head and dropped the envelope and its contents back onto her desk. “No.”

“You cannot let your personal vendetta get in the way of what really matters, Rowan,” Maeve scolded, following him out of the room as he stormed off.

He went to the chair across from Gavriel and Vaughan and pulled on his cap before he grabbed his jacket. They all watched, as if they had known a storm was coming. They had already known. He was the last to find out.

And they needed his approval.

“And what is that, Maeve?” Rowan grumbled, pulling his jacket on over his shirt, his vest, his shoulder holster. 

“Money,” she answered, as if it were obvious.

“It’s a good opportunity,” Lorcan muttered from where he sat, still smoking his cigarette with his ankles crossed on top of the table.

Rowan looked at Gavriel, whose word he trusted more than most. With weary eyes, Gavriel nodded, once. Rowan knew of Gavriel’s connection to the Ashryvers, even though the others didn’t. If Gavriel was in favor, it must have been an opportunity that rarely came around.

“Fine,” Rowan gritted out, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. “We’ll go tonight.”

Maeve’s voice flooded after him, telling him he wouldn’t regret it, but he could hardly hear her past the ringing in his ears. It better be fucking worth it, or Rowan would kill Maeve for getting them all into this mess, himself. He loathed the Galathynius’s, after all they had done to his family, to his father. He’d better be sitting in a palace by the time he reached twenty-two.

Without so much as a goodbye, Rowan walked back out into the streets of Orynth, where the drizzle had turned into a downpour.


End file.
